


Hold Out Your Delicate Hands

by Kiyaar



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: BDSM, Chastity Device, Commander Rogers, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, Lingerie, M/M, Mild D/S elements, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/pseuds/Kiyaar
Summary: Tony is gauging how far to push, how far he wants to be pushed, how far he wants Steve to take him.





	Hold Out Your Delicate Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is for mousieta, who prompted "blue."

“My color is red,” Tony says.

“That was fast.” Steve kicks his feet up onto the divan. “I haven’t even fucked your face yet.”

“You’re an animal,” Tony tells him, and bodily removes his booted feet.

“It’s been said,” says Steve, and places his feet back where they were. Tony makes a sub-vocal cry of dismay and turns back to the mirror. “Your color is whatever I say it is.”

“I think you like it when I look like you own me.”

“I think psychoanalysis is not part of these proceedings,” Steve says mildly.

Tony twists back in forth in front of the mirror, assessing. He presses the jock up to himself, traces the line of it where it would cut over his glutes. It’s very clearly a piece meant to contain, even though it’s made of the softest leather and overlaid with a heavy dark blue Chantilly lace.

“An hour,” Tony says.

“All morning,” Steve counters.

“Not through the board meeting.”

“All day, then.”

Tony is pressing the flat of his palm to his length, grimacing, glancing at Steve in the mirror with a look that says he is running simulations. He is gauging how far to push, how far he wants to be pushed, how far he wants Steve to take him.

“It does bring out my eyes,” he concedes. He gives himself another once-over. A little shudder runs through him. He’s flushing, up his chest and over his cheeks and a bloom of it on his back.

Steve covets it; it so rarely happens. Steve needs to know what nerve he’s hit. He wants to hit it repeatedly for the rest of their lives. He has half a mind to tell him: cancel everything and kneel there and don’t you dare move, I’m getting my sketchbook.

“Come here,” Steve tells him, overcome with affection.

Tony turns so Steve can look at all of him. Very deliberately places the jock on the section of the divan within arms’ reach of Steve. Sinks to his knees. Locks eyes with Steve and crawls until he’s right there at Steve’s side, below him, beside him. Tony knows better than to take initiative right now, so he settles on his knees and splays his hands flat and doesn’t touch his own hard cock. He leans one of his cheeks against Steve’s leathered thigh. He lets himself rest, a conscious decision - all of the tension goes out of him.

It’s generally not so easy. There must be some caveat, one of Tony’s secret stressors that eats away at him on his own time. Something to deal with later. Tony’s eyes are closed, and Steve reaches one gloved hand to stroke at his face, to slide his bare thumb into Tony’s easy slick mouth.

“If it were up to me, you would never wear clothes again,” Steve confides.

Tony makes a soft sound of assent, suckles slowly at Steve’s thumb, unhurried, gentle.

“I love you,” Steve tells him, and Tony’s eyes snap open. Steve slides down to the floor, both of them on their knees. Tony watches Steve’s biceps, hungry, subdued, as Steve reaches around behind him, snags the jock with one finger, pulls it into his own lap.

Steve grabs Tony around the waist because he is so close and warm and tender and he is somehow, miraculously, Steve’s. Tony misinterprets; he leans in for a kiss and Steve ducks away because having Tony like this inspires something capricious and mean in him.

“No,” Steve says, firm, because tenderness is not the order of the day, “wait.” He wraps his entire hand around Tony’s half-hard length. It’s more of a massage than a hand job: Steve pulls down the entire length, soothes his thumb over Tony’s velvety skin, so careful to let the tips of his fingerless gloves catch just enough for Tony to feel it, Tony loves that. His eyes are closed, he's holding himself back from thrusting himself bodily at Steve. He hardens up quick, so Steve plays with his balls, hefts them in his palm, runs them around in his hand, pulls ever so gently.

Tony is shaking. He hasn’t moved except to lean his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. Steve can feel him panting, can see his thighs flexing. He uses his free hand to cradle the back of Tony’s hand.

“Do you want to come,” Steve murmurs, and Tony nods wordless assent.

Steve has no intention of letting it go that far.

“Mm,” Steve says, and fishes out the fun part of the jock. “That’s too bad.” He presses his face into Tony’s fragrant hair so he can whisper. “If only you had a benevolent keeper.”

Tony is slick enough and hard enough that the silicone sleeve goes on easy. Conditions are ideal. Tony picks his head up, looking suitably shocked, just as Steve is fitting the rest of it over his considerable scrotal volume.

“Dirty,” Tony croaks. “What–”

Steve kisses him full on the mouth and Tony moans into his mouth, bereft, betrayed. Steve enjoys it. He enjoys making Tony speechless. It’s a rare joy.

“Oh my god,” Tony says, when Steve pulls away, low and subdued, like the shock is settling over him in a slow wave. He jostles himself while Steve sits with his own smugness. “I can’t - I can’t feel. Steve. _Steve_. You made this for me.”

Steve smiles. “I do know my way around StarkCAD.”

“I can’t feel anything,” Tony says, and he can’t keep his hands away, now. He’s softening and the silicone follows his form. He picks up his own cock and drops it, fondles himself, runs his thumb over the pinhole at the tip. “What is this? I should be – very aroused, because this is – a revelation, but it’s like.” He bites his bottom lip. He presses his mouth into a line. He swallows, hard.

It is such a privilege to be the one to make Tony’s brain trip over itself like this, however briefly.

“Like what, Tony,” Steve presses.

Tony doesn’t look at him but the flush keeps coming. “Like there’s nothing there,” he says.

Steve cradles his face. “It’s there,” he soothes. “It just doesn’t belong to you right now.”

Tony actually shudders under his hands. It’s only Steve’s preternatural hearing that lets him pick up Tony’s barely-there whimper.

“You’re welcome,” Steve tells him.

Tony looks like he wants to say something cutting and glib, but it passes over his face and resolves itself into hot arousal-shame. He ducks his face, like there’s anywhere for him to hide here. “I love that you made this for me,” he says hoarsely. “I’m so hot,” he whispers. “Conceptually hot. Jesus, Steve. The things I would do for you.”

“Do you still want to wear it?”

Tony meets his eyes. “Yes,” Tony says, his cheeks aflame, his voice low and deliberate. “I’d be happy to wear it all day, Commander,” he tells Steve.

The weight of that goes right to Steve’s cock.

He is masterful as he fits the full jock over Tony’s constrained genitals, barely touching, clinical, rough when contact has to be made. He pushes Tony’s legs apart, coaxes him up on his knees to get the straps around his legs, yanks the buckles into place a little harder than necessary. He is very careful not to look at Tony’s face, because if he does, Tony will never leave the boudoir and Steve won’t make his mission call. It’s difficult, but Steve is a man of control and restraint. He contents himself with the knowledge that he will have his intimate dominion over Tony’s body later, at his pleasure, for as long as he wants.

It’s completely unnecessary, and it will make Tony’s day very, very, difficult, but he snaps a tiny silver padlock through the hardware. A whim. An indulgence. “There’s a key in your desk,” Steve informs him. He traces the line of Tony’s cock over all the layers with one finger, and then lets Tony acquaint himself with his new reality.

Tony sits there, focusing very hard on the floor, breathing into his belly, until his bulge subsides a little, until he can look at Steve without breaking into that lovely pink flush.

“Can I get dressed now,” Tony says, when he can speak again.

Steve stands. Undoes his belt. Deliberately leaves his fly for Tony’s clever mouth. “In a minute,” he says. “I think you have a debt of gratitude to settle, first.”

**Author's Note:**

> • Thank you for reading!  
• I treasure any and all comments.  
• I am kiyaar on [tumblr](http://kiyaar.tumblr.com) and besafesteve on [twitter](http://twitter.com/besafesteve).  
• If you enjoyed this, please consider [reblogging.](https://kiyaar.tumblr.com/post/187809763508/fic-3-smuts-of-varying-angst)


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